THE LAST SUNRISE
1258 Words
Chapter 1: The Meeting
The rooftop bar buzzed with music and laughter, the city of Lagos spread out below like a sea of lights. The humid night air carried the scent of fried plantain and ocean salt, mixing strangely with the sharp tang of imported cologne. Amara leaned against the railing, her drink untouched, and wondered—again—why she had let her best friend drag her here.
“This is supposed to be fun,” Chika had said earlier, tugging Amara into a sequined dress she would never have chosen for herself. “You work too much. One night of dancing won’t kill you.”
Now, hours later, Chika was somewhere on the dance floor, swaying with strangers, and Amara stood alone, watching the city instead. She had always preferred the quiet intimacy of coffee shops, the hushed reverence of bookstores. A rooftop bar filled with shouting voices and pulsing music was not her idea of peace.
Still, the view was breathtaking. From here, the city stretched endlessly, neon signs flashing, car horns blaring even this late at night, and beyond it all, the ocean—vast, dark, eternal. Amara’s lips curved into the faintest smile. At least she had this.
“Enjoying the view?”
The voice startled her. Deep, smooth, threaded with amusement. She turned and found him leaning casually against the same railing a few feet away. He was tall, with shoulders that filled out his black shirt easily, and his face was half-lit by the glow of the city. But it was his eyes—intense, searching—that held her.
“I was,” Amara said, finding her voice, “until you ruined it.”
His laugh was warm, unbothered. “Fair. But give me a chance—I might make it better.”
Amara tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “Confident, aren’t you?”
“Not confident. Hopeful.” He stepped closer, extending a hand. “David.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, steady. “Amara.”
“Beautiful name,” he said, releasing her slowly, as though reluctant. “So, Amara—what’s a woman who clearly doesn’t belong here doing at a place like this?”
Her brows rose. “And what makes you so sure I don’t belong?”
He smiled, mischievous. “You’ve been standing at the railing for twenty minutes without sipping your drink. People who belong here are too busy pretending to enjoy themselves.”
Caught, Amara laughed. “Maybe I just like the view.”
“Or maybe,” David said softly, his gaze never leaving hers, “you’re waiting for something to happen.”
Something flickered inside her chest. Dangerous, thrilling. She turned back toward the city lights, suddenly aware of how close he was standing.
They talked—first about small things: music, books, the chaos of Lagos traffic. But soon their conversation deepened, flowing easily as if they had known each other far longer than an hour. David was bold, teasing, unafraid to challenge her opinions, yet there was a sincerity in his voice that disarmed her.
At one point, he leaned on the railing beside her, their shoulders brushing. “You know,” he said, looking out at the glittering skyline, “this city never sleeps. It’s always chasing something. Maybe that’s why people here burn so fast.”
“And you?” she asked, studying his profile. “Are you burning, David?”
He turned, his eyes locking on hers. “Maybe. Depends on if I find something worth burning for.”
Her pulse quickened. She looked away, but the question lingered between them like a spark.
Later, when music shifted to a slower rhythm, David extended his hand. “Dance with me.”
Amara shook her head. “I don’t dance.”
“Everyone dances. Some just haven’t met the right partner yet.”
His hand hovered, steady, patient. Slowly, almost against her will, she let him lead her onto the dance floor. The world blurred—the music, the lights, the crowd. All that existed was the warmth of his hand at her waist, the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.
For the first time in a long time, Amara felt herself letting go.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew—this was the beginning of something she would never be able to forget.
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Chapter 2: The Fire....
The days after their first meeting unfolded like a secret she couldn’t keep.
Amara told herself it was nothing—just chance, a fleeting spark—but when David called two days later, his voice rich with the memory of their laughter, she found herself agreeing to meet him without hesitation.
They chose a café tucked into a quiet corner of Victoria Island. Unlike the rooftop bar, it was a place Amara felt comfortable in: wooden tables, the smell of strong coffee, shelves lined with forgotten novels.
David arrived late, bursting through the door with an apologetic smile. “Traffic,” he said, out of breath. “Or maybe Lagos just didn’t want me to see you yet.”
Amara rolled her eyes, though her lips twitched. “You’re lucky I stayed.”
“Lucky?” He grinned, settling into the chair opposite her. “No. Determined.”
They talked for hours. He told her about his work in architecture, the buildings he dreamed of designing, cities he longed to see. She shared her love of art, how she sketched late into the night when the city grew quiet. With him, her words came easily, spilling like paint onto canvas.
By the time the café owner politely hinted they were closing, Amara felt both exhilarated and unsettled. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not so quickly, not so deeply.
---
Their world became a rhythm.
Late-night drives through nearly empty highways, the city lights blurring past. Street vendors laughing as they bought suya and roasted corn at midnight. Rainstorms that forced them to take shelter under the awnings of closed shops, where David would wrap his jacket around her shoulders.
One night, sitting in his car while rain drummed against the windshield, Amara leaned back and sighed. “You make it feel like the city is ours.”
David turned to her, his gaze serious. “Maybe it is. At least for tonight.”
She laughed, but when he leaned closer, brushing his lips against hers for the first time, the laughter dissolved into fire. The kiss was tender at first, then desperate, like they were both afraid time might steal it away.
Weeks blurred into months.
They visited art galleries, where Amara whispered her thoughts about each painting, and David listened as though her words were more important than the art itself. They strolled by the beach, letting the waves wash over their feet as he held her hand tightly, like he never wanted to let go.
One evening, they climbed to the top of an unfinished building David was working on. The view stretched endlessly, the city alive beneath them.
“This is what I love,” David said, his voice carrying in the wind. “Standing above it all, seeing what can be built. A city is alive, Amara. It breathes, it changes. Just like people.”
She smiled at him, brushing hair from her face. “So what does that make us? Foundations or skyscrapers?”
“Both,” he whispered, pulling her close. “But we’re not finished yet.”
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- Writer
